Dec 12, 2009
I wake up with a thought.
It is the twelfth day of December, the mention of which has no particular relevance to what goes on in my mind, but I mention it because it is odd that such a thought should, after all, pop into my mind so early in the a.m.
I am restless, uneasy, the kind one experiences at the end of a journey which opens the eyes to its lack of purpose. I have only just returned from Cambodia where nearly all I did was be-a-bum living out of a rucksack, going from city to city on cheap public transport aimlessly. I am jumpy because I feel as though there should have been more to this trip than I experienced.
So, today, December 12, 2009, over a cup of coffee I put an end to all future plans of backpacking aimlessly in South East Asia and focus my energy into a more challenging and satisfying way of seeing the world.
The morning is cold but temperature of my coffee is just right which instantly puts me in a happy frame of mind. I feel better about my decision. Slowly my mind is considering taking on impossible tasks to accomplish.
With the very last sip, my body comes alive. A warmth flows through it and my thoughts go geographically west, to a new continent.
That continent is Africa.
Lions. Snow- capped mountains. Ernest Hemingway. Savannahs. Drumbeats.
I fetch another cup of coffee and more caffeine later I zero in on Tanzania because it has all the above.
Ernest Hemingway. Wilbur Smith. Alex Haley.
My favourite authors are all linked to Africa in some way. That is good enough for me.
Tanzania – where you hear the lions roar. Where morn to dusk, drums roll…
I contemplate in silence. The sun warms up, birds chirp in neem trees and the sound of cars racing down the road dulls into oblivion. The only sounds I hear is my heart beating happily.
Tanzania becomes a real country in my mind and as I mentally place it on the world map, another thought takes shape.
How about I climb Mt Kilimanjaro while I am at it?
Mt Kilimanjaro? Did I really just think that? Mt Kilimanjaro? The Mountain?
It is a daring thought, I feel out of depth here.
I sit back thoughtfully, afraid that sudden movements might scatter that thought.
Sure, why not. Well, I’ll do it. Yes.
I lapse into mental review, urging my brain cells to throw up every piece of information I have on Mt Kilimanjaro. Three years ago, I had collected much information on it, but with time much of that had dissipated. Today I know only enough to send me into euphoric outbursts.
It’s darned too tall.
What the hell, I can do it.
The number of successful summits outnumbers failures, so there is no reason for me to fear high altitudes.
I come to a conclusion and almost immediately I see the need to get fit. I set myself a schedule of seventy days to D-Day, because it is the only way I will bring myself to get to work on myself and the journey ahead. Sure, I am an old dog in the process of learning new tricks, but I am a determined old dog, nevertheless. In fact, I am going to challenge myself to the point of no return. I have never climbed a high mountain before, so Mt Kilimanjaro is a challenge of a different kind. It has a lot to do with the spirit and body than a whim.
I have much to prepare. It is merely coincidental that Tanzania has some of the world’s best coffee. As long as there is coffee…
December 22, 2009
In ten days I have achieved very little. Nothing seems more important than getting fit, something I find particularly enjoyable. I think of Mt Kilimanjaro as a personal goal and I am eager to conquer it. The first two days of working out was killing but now I like the burning sensation in my calf muscles when I get off the cross-trainer. I like the way my back stretches and pulls on the rowing machine and how my ankles enjoy carrying the extra weight of sand bags on them.
I am looking forward to buying a new pair of trekking boots and breaking into them and a sleeping bag that will keep the negative temperatures at bay. I have a list of things that need to be attended to and I am looking forward to putting them all together. For the first time in my life I will get out of my comfort zone, drink from a water-pack, sleep in a bag, live inside four layers of clothing, walk uphill for an average of eight hours a day, and go without basic comforts or coffee. I also realize that this trip is going to bleed me – I have to buy every little thing and shoes are not cheap. I will not be climbing in a group so I will pay the same amount that would otherwise be shared amongst the group.
In the last ten days I have been assailed with self-doubts and hit by panic attacks over the upcoming adventure. But I realize that writing it all down, dates, prices and insecurities and see it in black and white, I feel calmer. The written words apparently do something to my nerves.
Paulo Coelho had said knowing about something makes it a friend and I admit that in ten days my fear of climbing is gone.
Setting my mind upon a task and giving it a narrow timeframe is working for me. I am more focused and from an impulsive backpacker, I am transforming into a determined trekker.
I am at peace. There is comfort in being able to pursue a dream. I suppose goals do that to you. They make you slaves of the heart.
March 20, 2010
Ethiopian Airlines to Kilimanjaro is about to take off. It is 4am in Dubai and I am seated beside a voluptuous African woman who instantly tries to strike up a conversation. I think she is curious to know why I am on the flight. Interestingly, I feel like the slimmest person on board. I weigh all of sixty three kilograms and stand at five feet and six inches. Not the ideal height to weight ratio, but I’d be needing some fat to burn in the mountains.
The plane cuts through the skies and four hours later descends into Bole International Airport in Ethiopia. I peer out of the tiny windows to be greeted with the sight of endless green hills interspersed with small houses with tin roofs and dirt tracks connecting them to a village or town.
We roll to a halt.
It is 8.30 am and there is little under two hours before the connecting Ethiopian Air to Kilimanjaro.
As I walk off the plane I realize I am finally on the continent of Africa. I have managed to pull this off. Bole International airport is merely a teaser; the real deal will be at the end of two and a half hours of flight journey.
I walk through the airport towards my next boarding gate fascinated with everything. They are all around me, in uniforms, in overalls, behind the counters, at immigration counters…yes, they are everywhere. The Africans. It is their country, after all. A few whites and browns appear like debris in a sea of black. I don’t know what I was expecting but not this. I have never seen so many Africans in one place manning airports so efficiently. Most of them are very tall and well built. I feel like a minority. I feel vulnerable. There aren’t any Indian females anywhere.
I walk ahead in silence, staring at people milling about. I am excited, yes, but also apprehensive. It is one thing to dream of Africa in the comforts one’s home but to be on the African soil for real is quite another. I am tempted to grab a quick bite at the airport restaurant for a taste of Ethiopian food, but my past experiences have taught me that authentic food at airports is a myth.
I arrive at the boarding gate in time, ready for the real journey into Tanzania.
The few Asians on the flight coming in from Dubai have disappeared and I am now a brown girl all alone on a flight full of whites and blacks. A sore thumb has a better chance of staying unobtrusive, but not me.
I have suddenly become a minority.
I have the window on my right and a white man in an unbuttoned floral print shirt on my left. His face looks like it has been left in the sun too long. On his red, freckled arm is an old bead bracelet that looks very African. This man is yearning to break the silence that envelops the plane when it has steadied at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.
I sense this need from the way he positions himself for a conversation. I stop myself from reacting. Finally, he succumbs to the force of social interaction.
“What are you doing in Kilimanjaro? Here for the safari, are you?”
The accent is British.
“Oh, no. No. I am here for Mt Kilimanjaro.” I reply truthfully. “How about yourself?”
His eyes pop and face turns red. He is clearly laboring under some unknown pressure. He shifts uneasily before replying.
“In this month of March? Clearly your trek operator didn’t tell you the right things. We are in the middle of the rainy season, of course Kili is at a higher altitude no doubt, but the rains can get there too…and snow. You sure?”
In his tone is a touch of incredulity.
“Yes. I am.”
“Must have cost you a pretty sum too, but attempting it this season is quite senseless.”
I remain silent. A similar thought has crossed my mind. I turn to look out of the window and see an ocean of grey, the kind which spells rain.
“Do you know people die on the mountain every year? Yes, I suppose you do. But why couldn’t you wait a few months?”
I am getting nervous.
He jerks suddenly, raises his eyebrows far into his balding head and fixes me an unsympathetic look.
The stewardess choses that very moment to arrive with my coffee. She has overheard a part of the conversation clearly because she jumps in to the conversation with a question.
“You are climbing Kilimanjaro? Ahah – Too much rain at this time, but good luck,” and hands me the coffee. “You do safari afterwards. Serengeti, it is very green now.”
I hold my coffee cup close to my heart. I have a feeling that everyone within earshot is going to discourage me from attempting the climb and that by holding on to the cup I can somehow defend myself from the barrage of opinions.
But nothing happens. There are lots of thoughts running through my mind. The Englishman withdraws into silence and I hear the voice of the steward floating down the aisle.
“Tea or coffee, sir?”
The Boeing 787 continues to pierce the skies, negotiating the occasional air pocket with panache, humming its way to its destination.
I’d known of the March rains but that was one of the reasons to be here. I had been hoping to see a little of everything. Rains, lush green savannah, the mountain top covered in snow and flowing rivers were the kind of things my heart yearned for. Yes, for a first-time climber I was overly optimistic of my abilities but I am a slave to my heart.
The tannoy comes alive. It is the flight captain.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on your right is Mt Kilimanjaro, the highest free standing mountain in the world.”
I look out of the window and see nothing but clouds, but my mind pictures that flat snow-covered mountain top I’d been seeing every day for the last seventy days.
“Well good luck,” says my friendly neighbor, breaking into my thoughts. “You look strong enough.”
And just like that, we descend through the heavy clouds that cover Kilimanjaro and roll to a halt.
Of the first memories I have of arriving in Africa is the plane touching down. The runway is damp and dark and surrounded by lush green.
I simply want to get off this plane and be enveloped by the great African outdoors. I want smell it. To feel it. To study the faces of these familiar and yet unfamiliar people on the continent.
I don’t know much about them, I am unfamiliar with their fundamental lifestyle and I suppose this unfamiliarity has often led me to assume things about them. My level of English, education and nationality has also fed a certain silent superiority complex.
I am about to be stripped of every iota of ego I have.
